


Takes a Lot to Rock You, Baby

by FrenchTwistResistance



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, I just want caos to be a sitcom where hot middle-aged ladies kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-30 17:04:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20100628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchTwistResistance/pseuds/FrenchTwistResistance
Summary: The Spellman Mortuary needs a new hearse. Hilda is reluctant about the idea.





	Takes a Lot to Rock You, Baby

**Author's Note:**

> Didn’t want to choose Dwight Yoakam’s “Takes a Lot to Rock You” as my August prompt for fear of being too obvious, but also I wanted this song represented.  
PS My brother irl really did used to drive a shitty old hearse whose lights worked exactly this way.

“I don’t see what’s wrong with the old one,” Hilda says as she continues kneading the dough she’s working on. Everyone—Ambrose chopping and seeding cherries to go in the bread after its first proving, Zelda replacing the battery in her wrist watch, Sabrina doing pre-calc homework—roll their eyes simultaneously. Zelda opens her mouth to give a reason, but Sabrina’s already speaking:

“It is ancient! I wouldn’t be surprised to learn it was the first hearse ever made.”

Hilda purses her lips, says,

“The first hearses were hand-truck carts, and after that they were horse-drawn—” Ambrose stops her before she launches into a full history lesson:

“And this one might as well be horse drawn, auntie.” Hilda looks up as she hears Zelda laugh. Zelda continues the thought,

“The lights don’t even work properly, Hilda.”

“I fixed that!” Ambrose and Sabrina exchange a look as Zelda fields that one:

“Jerry-rigging a switch between the battery and the low beams that you must flip before you enter the vehicle does not exactly count as a ‘fix.’”

Hilda harrumphs, puts a little more muscle behind the kneading.

“Well I like her! And I don’t want to get rid of her!”

Zelda sighs.

“I’d prefer not turning our property into a scrap yard for decrepit vehicles you inexplicably have an emotional connection to.”

“What if…” Sabrina begins. “What if Auntie Z lets you keep the Cadillac in exchange for getting rid of one of the others?”

“Good compromise, cuz,” Ambrose says. Zelda says,

“I might be able to be persuaded.”

Hilda grins, flops the dough into a glass bowl and slides it over to Ambrose to prepare for proving.

“Funny, that should probably be my line,” Hilda says. “Seeing as how my name, and my name only, is on all the titles.”

Zelda fumbles her tiny screwdriver.

“An important detail to remember, indeed,” Zelda says. Ambrose laughs around the roll of Saran Wrap:

“Check mate?”

“Oh, please,” Zelda says, rolling her eyes and lighting a cigarette. “I’m an expert negotiator. Why do you think we have a Cadillac instead of a Pontiac in the first place?” She locks eyes with Hilda, and Ambrose coughs uncomfortably. Sabrina’s eyes widen, scanning the scene. Hilda and Zelda are squaring off, an ominous and electrical charge in the air between them. Hilda is unseeingly swiping at the countertop with a tea towel (one of a set of four Zelda had embroidered for her, one for each season with a relevant Satanic verse and a little nature scene), and Zelda is unseeingly smoking and rubbing an index finger over the handle of her screwdriver rhythmically.

“I don’t want to know, do I?” Sabrina says. Ambrose shakes his head slowly.

Hilda wipes her hands on her apron and unties it very deliberately, still making eye contact with Zelda. She then leans on her elbows on the counter. Zelda’s eyes waver just briefly, dipping almost imperceptibly to Hilda’s open collar—opened more now that she’s leaning—and then immediately jumping back up to her eyes.

“Obviously, the Crown Vic, the Riviera, and the Studebaker are off the table. Make me an offer on the Datsun or the Firebird,” Hilda says.

Sabrina laughs, and Ambrose huffs. The tension is broken slightly as Ambrose crosses to the table, takes out his wallet.

“What’s this, now?” Hilda says, straightening up and also crossing to the table. She takes a seat next to Zelda, and Sabrina explains,

“He said you’d never let that Firebird go in a million years, and I said you would rather have a ragtop than t-tops.”

“Well, pay up, then, love,” Hilda says to Ambrose. She then looks pointedly at Zelda. “I can really appreciate a person who’s committed to settling debts in a timely manner.”

“I’ve always been as prompt as decorum allows, sister,” Zelda says. Hilda hums in derision. And again Ambrose coughs uncomfortably.

“About an hour for the proving, then?” Ambrose says.

“Oh 45 minutes, I’d say,” Hilda says.

“Well I’ll just be. Not here for that. Call me when or if you need me. And Sabrina. Don’t you take this class with Roz? Don’t you think she probably could use your help on it?”

Sabrina surveys Ambrose’s face, Zelda’s furiously stubbing out her cigarette, Hilda’s uncharacteristically smug look.

“Uhh yeah you’re right. Thanks.” She gathers up her materials, begins shoving them in her bag. “Can I take the Riviera, then?”

“Keys are on the hook, lamb,” Hilda says, gaze still fixed on Zelda. “Home by 11, yeah?” 

Sabrina looks at Ambrose. He shrugs. She says,

“I’ll text if I’m staying the night.”

“I’ll make sure your aunt has her phone off silent,” Zelda says, now scraping her thumbnail against the shank of the screwdriver.

“K… bye…?” Sabrina says, backing out the door. Ambrose is motioning for her to scram and then taking the steps two at a time.

“Love you,” Hilda’s saying vaguely as Zelda’s saying,

“Be good, dear.”

And then they’re alone in the kitchen, and Hilda angles her chair toward Zelda.

“Well? What’s your offer?” Hilda says. Zelda looks her up and down, abandons the screwdriver in favor of placing her hand on Hilda’s knee, beginning slow circles with her thumb. Hilda cants a little closer and clears her throat. Zelda says,

“If we get rid of either, it will still be a one-for-one trade because I fully intend to have a functioning, modern hearse at our disposal, and that will necessitate a purchase. That’s a zero sum game for me. And you know I don’t particularly like a zero sum game.” Zelda throughout has been inching Hilda’s skirt up so that her thumb can now make circles on a bare knee.

“Hmm yes,” Hilda says. “You hate a zero sum game. You much prefer to come out on top.” Zelda's thumb is still circling, but her hand is sliding incrementally up Hilda’s thigh.

“And don’t you prefer that, too?” Zelda says, fingers dangerously close to Hilda’s pantyline. Hilda places her hand over Zelda’s, says,

“Maybe. But don’t you remember all the times we went to the drive-in in that Datsun? All the times you had to hex a highway patrolman because you were speeding in that Firebird?”

“You’re too sentimental for your own good.”

“And you still haven’t laid out a convincing argument.”

Zelda uses her other hand to remove Hilda’s restraining hand and bring it to her mouth. Her now freed hand rides up farther and grazes Hilda’s panties. She kisses Hilda’s palm and says,

“I’ll cancel my membership with Steak-of-the-Month Club.”

Hilda’s eyes flutter closed, and she bucks her hips. She counters,

“That just means you’ll be adding ribeye to the grocery list.” Zelda continues stroking against Hilda’s cotton, skims her teeth against the muscle at the base of her thumb, drags her tongue over the blue veins of her wrist, says,

“I’ll go back to the Greendale butcher shop. Ethically sourced.” Hilda’s eyes fly open:

“You hate that guy.”

“Yes. But I’m negotiating. And the Datsun is the ugliest vehicle I’ve ever had the displeasure of riding in. It’s even worse as a metal sculpture in our back 40.”

They look at each other for a long moment, Zelda’s fingers still working gently, and then Hilda bats Zelda’s hands away and places herself in Zelda’s lap.

“I told you at the time that we should’ve bought an El Camino instead,” Hilda says as she threads her fingers into Zelda’s hair. Zelda clutches at her hips, says,

“You’re pretty when you gloat.” She strains her neck to kiss Hilda, buck up into her, force her tongue into her mouth and her hips to her hips.

Hilda’s panting and attempting more contact, and Zelda says,

“Do we have a deal, then?”

“I suppose you’ll want the new hearse to be a Rolls Royce,” Hilda says even as she’s guiding Zelda’s hand back under her skirt.

“I’ve got no choice,” Zelda says, fingers searching and finding and palpating. “I deserve the best.”


End file.
